This poem about settlers coming here appeared in the October 3rd, 1889 issue of the Oxford Mirror, author unknown. It seems to have the cadence of a train which makes it all the more appropriate for Oxford Township.

They Are Coming

They are coming from the deserts of the dim and dusty East,
where to raise a stunted turnip gives the prospect of a feast;
where the farms are made gravel and they plow with dynamite,
and the festive chattel mortgage sings its dirges day and night.

They are coming in their wagons, they are coming on the train,
they are coming from the regions where they struggled long in vain;
they are coming from the cabin, they are coming from the hall,
they are coming out to Oxford where there’s plenty for them all.

They are coming with their husbands, they are coming with their wives,
they are coming with their housewares, their needles and their knives,
with their harrows, planters, pencils and guns;
they are coming with their fathers, with their mothers and their sons.

They are coming stout and slender, they are coming short and tall;
they are coming out to Oxford where there’s plenty for them all:
where you needn’t dig potatoes with a sabre or a dirk,
when the rain is badly needed then the rain gets in its work.

Where the rivers moan and murmur on their journey to the sea,
where the breezes tackle corn stalks as big as fences on the lea.
Where the savage lately wandered in search of human hair,
now the farmer takes his porkers to the nearest county fair.

And the corn is gaily growing where the greasy wigwam stood,
where he burned the wailing captive now the chickens scratch for food.
And the people that are coming to this pleasantest of climes
show a happy knack of keeping with the progress of the time.

They are coming from the South land, they are coming from the North,
from the valleys of the mountains they in droves are coming forth.
They will find the country beaming from the springtime to the fall,
when they come out to Oxford where there’s plenty for them all.